


Veniero's

by newspapersinyourshoes



Category: Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Angst, Birthday, Bowery Beauties - Freeform, Canon Era, Cheesecake, Feed Him, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Historical Accuracy, Hurt/Comfort, Jack being Jack, Kinda, Lower East Side, New York City, Newsboys, Newsies - Freeform, Newsies 1992, Newsies Live - Freeform, Oneshot, Other, Poor Jack, Young Jack, a lil bit, and we love him, but this time its comfort, cheesecake is like the fourth most important character in this fic, it ends happy i swear, jack has so much trauma, jack is a self-sacrificing idiot, newsies canon era, not really - Freeform, yes this is a love letter to cheesecake
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-27
Updated: 2020-02-27
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:15:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22916821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newspapersinyourshoes/pseuds/newspapersinyourshoes
Summary: It may or may not be Jack's birthday and he may or may not be a little obsessed with those gorgeous cheesecakes in the bakery window.
Comments: 7
Kudos: 19





	Veniero's

He couldn't help it, really.

It wasn’t Jack’s fault that the bakery just happened to be so close to his route to Medda’s, it wasn’t his fault that the window display was always so fresh and inviting. It wasn’t his fault that his grumbling stomach so often led him the extra two blocks out his way just to drool at those cakes. It certainly wasn’t his fault that he’d been chased off the premises four times now for “being in the way”. Jack was just hungry, and how could that be his fault?

But the times he would come rushing into the theatre gushing to Medda about the pastries that would haunt him for days at a time? Okay, maybe that was on him.

To fifteen-year-old Jack, Veniero’s was the closest thing to paradise he’d ever laid eyes on. 

He often justified it to himself, even though none of the other boys knew how often he ogled those rich, well-fed people enjoying their beautiful sweet desserts. It don’t hurt to look, he would tell himself. Jack had gotten some pretty good views the first few times he passed it, pressing his face up to the window and ogling a clean, perfect cheesecake. Too bad he was hitting a growth spurt; the littles might be able to get away with that sort of thing on their cuteness, but no one wanted a fifteen-year-old convict pressing his dirty face on their nice glass windows.

Well, almost sixteen, really. Jack wasn’t sure exactly when his birthday was, but he had enough vague, remaining memories to pin it somewhere around this week. Crutchie would bug him about it, he knew, but most of the others would, with any luck, forget about it. Maybe this year he could just pass the day without too much attention, just focus on what really mattered this week: shoes for the new kid who’d shown up recently, and maybe a new (second-hand) shirt for Racetrack. Kid was growing like a tree.

All thoughts of shoes went right out the window when Jack reached the corner of 11th street. It was right down there, he could see the sign, he -- no, Kelly. Focus. Medda’s. Birthday be damned. Tired feet be damned, he had promised to paint for her today. Huffing, Jack redirected his steps back up Third Ave, trying to envision what colors he would try mixing this evening.

\-------

“Jack! What did I tell you about letting someone know you’re here?”

Jack whipped around, heart stopping for half a second before he remembered it was Medda, and the tone was playful. “Sorry, Miss Medda. I didn’t wanna disturb ya,”

Medda laughed. “Ain’t disturbing me none to have some more of that beautiful artwork. Just remember to say hello so I don’t worry.”

Jack nodded, and bent down to wet his brush. As he did so, he tried very hard not to listen to the reactive rumbling in his stomach. 

“Jack, honey. Why don’t you wrap up for the day? I got a little something planned for you, you know.” 

Jack froze. Shit. Oh, the grief he was gonna give Crutchie later…”Somethin’ planned, Miss Medda?”

“Well it is your birthday, ain’t it?” Jack opened his mouth. “No, I know you don’t have a set date, and I know you don’t like to bring attention to yourself, but if I’m correct you’ll be turning sixteen about now, now won’t you?”

Jack shrugged.

“Sixteen is big, you know. And I want to give you something nice for all the painting you do for me as well. Now go and wash those hands, and meet me by the stage door.”

Jack knew he had to give in. Medda had been looking out for Jack for ages now, and she never demanded anything in return except good behavior. Besides, Jack sighed to himself, who knew? Maybe this might mean food or a few cents he could bring back to the boys later. 

Hands washed (but paint not entirely gone), Jack joined Medda by the door, and followed her blindly as she set off down the street. As they turned down Third Ave. Jack determinedly looked anywhere but at the looming street sign on 11th. To his horror, he saw Medda turn her steps left and down the street he was trying so badly to ignore. For the third time he asked, with an antsy and somewhat guarded edge to his voice, “Why can’t ya just tell me where’ we’s goin’, Miss Medda?” 

“Jack Kelly, can you at least try to be patient?” Medda made certain Jack could hear the humor in her voice. “I told you I’ve got a surprise for you, and it’s gonna stay a surprise.”

When their steps finally slowed and Jack dared to look up, he felt sure he must be daydreaming again. Above his head hung the brightly colored sign for Veniero’s. Jack stood frozen on the sidewalk. Shit, he thought. She don’t know.

Medda looked expectantly at him, chuckling softly at his open-mouthed expression. “I told you it was a surprise. Well come on, mister.”

“Miss Medda, I...I can’t.” Jack looked down at his shoes.

“Can’t? Honey it’s your birthday. I know it ain’t what you’re used to, but I thought you’d like something special for once. You always tell me how lovely you think these cakes are,” said Medda. “And you’re always giving all you got to everyone else around you.” she added, raising her eyebrows.

Jack felt his face burn with shame. Did they have to do this out where everyone could see? “It ain’t that, Miss Medda. They don’t like me around here. I been...well, I been thrown outta here a couple times actually.” Once again he determinedly ignored the painful rumbling sensation in his gut.

Medda gave him a look that Jack couldn’t quite decipher. It wasn't pity, Jack knew that look too well. It wasn’t anger -- he knew that even better. Medda finally sighed and held out her arm to Jack, nodding her head towards the door. “Nonsense. You’re with Medda, remember?”

Reluctantly, Jack took her arm and accompanied her into the front of the bakery. He tried to keep his eyes on the floor, studying the tile patterns. When he chanced a look up at the maitre d's counter, he recognized the man who’d hustled him off the premises the last time. Gulping, he looked to Medda, who maintained a formidable posture. Jack was so nervous he barely registered their exchange, but he didn’t fail to notice the withering look sent his way by the maitre d, and the arguably fiercer look given by Medda. Don’t hurt to look, right, he thought to himself. 

It was with great shock that Jack found himself seated at a dainty little wooden table under a mesmerizing stained glass ceiling. Medda sat opposite him, smiling gently at him over the top of her equally dainty menu card. Jack couldn’--- shouldn’t--- be here. The sense of displacement was almost overpowering. 

When the server brought them each a slice of cheesecake, Jack physically started to get up. This all had to be a trap, Medda knew he couldn’t pay for this, why would she-- “Jack. Jack, honey, sit down. I’m paying, remember?”

“No, Miss Medda, I can’t do that. You already give me so much, you know I can’t repay you, I could never afford --”

“Jack Kelly.” Jack swallowed, his eyes back to the floor in a matter of seconds. Medda reached out and took his hand. “This is a gift, Jack. You don’t have to repay me in any way, ever, for this. It’s your birthday, and I know you never celebrate but I wanted to give you something because I appreciate all you do for me. Do you understand?”

Jack wasn’t sure he did. But the cheesecake was still sitting there, on a dainty little china plate, atop a dainty little wooden table, in a dainty little bakery he would never be allowed in if Medda wasn’t with him. And he felt the rumbling again, and thought about the change still rattling in his pocket from selling. That could buy a decent meal for Crutchie…  
Slowly, uncertainly, Jack sat back down and stared at his slice of cake before looking up at Medda one last time. 

“Happy Birthday Jack,” she said, and the smile on her face somehow made Jack forget all about new shoes and shirts. Taking what felt like the first deep breath in hours, he took a bite of the cake. Oh. Jack felt his taste buds come alive all at once. The cake was gone within the minute.

\-----

That evening, Jack sat with his back against the railing of the fire escape atop the lodging house. He was watching Crutchie dig into a half sandwich Jack had bought him an hour ago. He felt in a sort of trance, full of cake and sugar and a foreign sense of fulfilment. 

“Jackie? Whatcha thinkin’ bout?” Crutchie scrutinized Jack’s unusually content face over the paper wrapping of his sandwich. 

“Nothin’, Crutch. Finish ya sandwich.” Jack stretched out comfortably, noting the distinct absence of any rumbling as he did so. Maybe this birthday had been alright after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Veniero's is a real place and it's really on 11th in NYC. It was founded in 1894, so this is set 1895-ish.
> 
> *When Jack mentions his change buying a decent meal for Crutchie, I want to clarify that Crutchie 100% sells really well, he just normally gives all his earnings to the littles and other boys who need it because newsies really did be like that.


End file.
